


Town Meeting

by LadyRavenEye



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 16:21:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4186626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRavenEye/pseuds/LadyRavenEye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tiny fluffy piece of silly, based on kissingcullens's idea that maybe Steve felt brave enough to hit on Sam because he saw him first in a queer space <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Town Meeting

Sam remembers the night they almost met, but Steve tells the story a little differently than he does.

“So Nat finally bullied me into going to Town Danceboutique because, and I’m quoting her here, I needed some ‘Danceboutique dancebooty.’  I almost didn’t come in when I heard the cover was twenty dollars—twenty American dollars, I still can’t believe it—but you know Nat, it’s not like it’s easy to say no to her.  It was hot and crowded but the music was loud and lots of folks were dancing, all kinds of folks—I felt closer to Brooklyn than I had in a long time, not because any one thing except the variety of people felt like home. 

“So I see, from across the bar, a fella that looks about my age (well, the age I look like, anyway, and everyone else there was practically in diapers so it was nice)—amazing body, amazing smile—dancing on another fella and just ‘working’ the whole dance floor (is that term still popular?  Okay, good--) and man.  I mean, I’m not a dancer, Peggy could have told you that—but this guy had moves.  He was wearing a beautiful purple shirt with buttons down the front and very tight dark jeans.  I remembered that for all his grace, he moved like military, and that was nice too.

“Nat poked at me so hard and so long that I got a bruise, a _bruise_ , me—but I couldn’t muster the courage to just go up and talk to him.  He looked so beautiful in the lights, sweating a lot but not so much it was gross—I mean, if he were a plane and I had to jump out, no problem.  But asking him for a dance or buying him a drink, no thank you.  Plus, the drinks there were outrageously priced, I know things are different now and even worse in the District, but you’re telling me that a dollop of some cinnamon hoo-ha (who puts cinnamon in their whiskey, anyway?) is worth twelve dollars?  I don’t think so.

“Next morning, I went running, and who do I see except Mr. Beautiful Dancing Man.  By the time I gathered my wits and my courage he had packed up and went home but I went back the next day hoping and there he was!  And so I, uh, I guess I kind of gave him the business, but I was _trying_ to flirt, I even wore a special shirt for it.  I figured I’d give it a shot, because hey, even if he rejects me, it won’t be ‘cause I’m a fella, and that made me feel… safe, for the first time in a while.  Maybe that’s silly, but I’m not mad I thought it, because here we are.”

Sam and Steve lean toward each other and kiss at this point, and then Sam lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Except that’s all essentially bullcrap, Cap.

“Leila, my _friend—_ and I use the term loosely here—finally dragged me to that awful bar.  If you’re young and LGBTQ in DC, okay, I can see the appeal—but god damn, I am only one of those things, and it ain’t young. 

“I am _not_ one of those farts who bemoans young people fads and young people music, but I do not like dubstep.  You can’t make me like dubstep, many have tried, and they all failed, okay?  Like that one song that goes _wub wub WUB wub wub wub_ that sounds exactly like that other song that goes _wub wub wub WUB WUB WUB wub_ that sounds like all the dubstep songs that have ever been made and will, unfortunately, continue to get made.  And that night at Town, the DJ was playing a lot of fucking dubstep.

“So this skinny little dude was on me from the moment I got in there, and he was cute, but probably like eight years old.  Said he went to Georgetown, and was studying African American studies—which, okay, I’ve got a lot of knowledge and I feel like I should share it with the world, even with overenthusiastic twinks in an overpheromonal shitty music blasting club, you know?  And he was plying me with ciders and we were really going for it, to the point where white people were moving out of our way, waxing poetic about all sorts of shit he was studying, and he asked me to dance and I was like, fuck it, okay.  Lil hipster boy has earned some PG rated Sam Wilson dance moves.  Maybe even PG-13.

“Except, of course, fucking _dubstep._ I was just, like, swaying.  Didn’t want to give the full booty because I must have been the oldest person on the dancefloor by at least a half a decade.  Even my clothes were too old, and I wore my tightest pants, at Leila’s insistence.  People were making room for the old man with the nothing dance moves and the shirt so sweaty it turned translucent.  My dance partner even got weird and mercifully left me alone after we danced—“danced”—to one song.  I sat in the corner and sulked until a nice drag queen came over and kept me company until Leila was ready to go home.

“Then the next morning I went on a run to sweat out the ciders—and the dubstep—and the rest is history, I guess.” 


End file.
